(On purpose,) we stranded ourselves
on a cliff, sucking in our hiccups and bedridden rivers
like reckless adulterers.

This mountain is a lioness, and it's angry,
and it writes itself— acrophobia— on my spinal cord,

(I don't know what that is, but they say that it's in me
and I can't just spit it out like some odd-smelling milk.

I meant the bone, not the fear.)

I loved you as an idea.

My rib cages are liquid, and like to think: these are crippled lines,
these are made-up breathing, these are cliffs we fall from

and these are suicide notes.

You wrote them badly so no one will know
we planned this.

(We planted these.)

These bodies aren't ours, and these jeans don't fit.
I thought I found a drug stronger than you, but it was weaker

and more permanent.